When I was little, if you can imagine it, my mom had all sorts of crazy rules. These rules often kept me from socializing with other kids. (Or her for that matter.) They mostly kept me alone and in my head, concocting all sorts of things up there that would make drawing shapes in the Phoenix dirt with sticks, erasing them with my hand, then starting over again, feel like the most exciting thing in the world.
I spent a lot of time alone, but I often had the boombox: a beautiful, seventeen-inch silver machine, with a tape deck that records AND a mic and everything. In fact, I still have it, and it’s one of the only things I had in my new place (besides the termites) when I decided to make a run from my last life. It’s been through a lot with me, and this morning, as I started yet another morning thinking why should I even bother when all the options I’m given are things that only make my brain pulse, I flipped on my good old friend for some company. And Call Me Al was on. Fuck yeah.
As I danced in my kitchen, thinking of Chevy Chase (sorry Paul), I remembered the performances I would put on in the front yard for absolutely no one when I was a little girl to songs like this. I would practice and practice until it was perfect, and then I would simultaneously hit play and that fresh cut grass in my bare feet - so as to not slip during the difficult acrobatic number (which was probably just me rolling around in biker shorts and neon lace, but in my HEAD, it was truly a graceful thing of beauty).
Sometimes I would record a talkshow with the boombox and our one-eyed dog, back when he was a two-eyed dog with a constant red rocket. Other times, the boombox would provide the music for my carefully choreographed rollerskate ballet, performed to a Tchaikovsky and 2 Live Crew mixtape I painstakingly made for the occasion. I remember there was an epic sword battle at one point, and it was definitely hard to stick the landing as it was on one leg whilst skating and stabbing…
I kept dancing while pouring my morning tea; I thought it may help motivate me to try for the millionth time to write a damn resume for a job without pulling a Shining in the “Professional Experience” section. But instead, it just made me wanna take the boombox out into the front yard again. See what I could do with some Ke$ha on the gravel in triple digits…
You know, be me again.
Jun 13, 2011 @ 11:02 am
